Masks
by Honesty
Summary: Sometimes, when a mask slips, it reveals far too much behind it. Elizabeth discovers a little more of Commodore Norrington than she can understand.


TITLE: Masks  
  
AUTHOR: Mogs  
  
FANDOM: Pirates of the Caribbean  
  
GENRE: Het  
  
PAIRING: Norrington/Elizabeth  
  
RATING: PG  
  
WARNINGS: None  
  
DISCLAIMER: PotC and all recogniseable characters and situations are property of Disney. No copyright infringement is intended.  
  
FEEDBACK: Please, please, please  
  
SUMMARY: Sometimes when a mask slips, there is a whole world behind it.  
  
A/N: A late entry for the Norrington ficathon, which means that I was given a general challenge rather than something for someone in particular:  
  
Pairing: Norrington/Elizabeth OR Norrington/Elizabeth/Jack  
  
Requests: Post-movie smut or UST  
  
Restrictions: No Will-bashing  
  
So, I went for Norrington/Elizabeth and UST, because that was the best I could manage.   
  
-----------------------------------  
  
The music was sprightly and italianate - the latest dances from Messrs Handel and Bononcini, he didn't doubt - and their jaunty jangling almost made his head ache.   
  
Commodore James Norrington took the glass a servant pressed into his hand, holding it absently as he watched the musicians in their corner. Two violin, a harpsichord and a viola da gamba; and the harpsichord was already drifting somewhat out of tune, seemingly unregarded by the milling gentry who talked over it oblivious. What James knew of music he had learned from his family's chest of viols, playing music that must have been passé in his father's time, let alone his own - stately melodies whose dignified surfaces were underpinned by the sutble dissonances that lurked in the interweavings of the lower voices.  
  
Much like a high-society gathering, he supposed. He sipped the wine, not much aware of its taste, and schooled his face into a suitable mask for social interaction.  
  
"Sir?" Lieutenant Gillette at his shoulder, his hands unencumbered by glasses.  
  
"Gillette"  
  
"Sir, if you wish to leave early, I'm sure we can arrange something. Lieutenant Groves-"  
  
He nearly smiled. "I do not need to know what Lieutenant Groves has seen fit to do, but please assure him that it is needless." His voice hardened. "And remind him that no matter what I think of his ingenuity in such matters, a social gathering is not the place to air it." And particularly not a social gathering in honour of the Governor's daughter's betrothal.  
  
Lieutenant Gillette, who could barely stand the sight of his colleague, smiled a small, narrow smile and moved purposefully off.   
  
It had been his steward, Betterton, who had prepared his uniform for the ball, and had almost pleading that surely he could not mean to go; Gillette had aired the same sentiments in a rather more restrained fashion, and now Groves had devised Lord knew what as a means of extricating him from it at seemingly a moment's notice. Their loyalty was much to be commended, if not their discretion.  
  
He gazed out into the crowd, watching the motions of the dancers with an intentness that was more weariness than attention. He was not interrupted, and stood oblivious, watching the bright colours of the clothes, the gestures of the dance, the glittering of lamps and candles, until the colours and shapes lost all meaning beyond their own temporary identites, the sounds dissolving into an unending succession of harmonious nonsequiturs, and not melodies at all.  
  
"Standing idle, eh, Commodore? Dear me, we can't have that."  
  
James glanced sharply at Governor Swann, his wine-glass jerking so that a trail of the warm liquid ran over the back of his hand.  
  
"Merely wool-gathering, Governor," he said evenly, stilling the glass absently, and then, because the occasion demanded it, "This must be a highly satisfactory gathering for you."  
  
The Governor gave him a false-modest smile, but refused to be drawn. "Well, you know how it is - it's a man's privilege to spoil his daughter."  
  
It ached, but no more than an old sword-wound in damp weather. James gave a near-smile and half-nod. "Indeed," he said levelly.  
  
The Governor gave him a sharp glance, as if suspecting some unseemly display of emotion. "Where was I? Oh yes - I have some dear friends from Hampshire here whom I would dearly like you to meet."  
  
* * *  
  
Elizabeth edged through the crowd, in surreptious search of Will. Her father - she was sure of it now - had some nefarious scheme in play. He was forever commandeering the Commodore (she smiled wryly at the terribly word-play) and then trying to corner her when she took a moment alone. After the first attempt, Will had taken it upon himself to be her chaperone whenever she saw the Governor about and looking intent.  
  
Dear Will... Word had clearly got around quickly about his own origins because he had found himself extraordinarily short of dancing-partners. Not that it worried Elizabeth, who would happily have danced with nobody else all night; but it seemed she was finding herself once again at the wrong end of stifling social conventions. As hostess, she had a duty to mingle, which meant abandoning Will for long periods, even though only one other young lady had dared accept a dance with him.  
  
"And did you enjoy your ... other dance?" she murmured mischievously in his ear when she caught up with him. To one side she could see his partner for that dance - a Miss Isabella Bassett - who was even now being roundly berated by her mother for stooping so low.  
  
"A poor substitute," he said gallantly, and she smiled brilliantly at him. He was being so patient and so amused over the whole affair that it hardly gave her the right to be angry on his behalf.  
  
"Elizabeth! Do come over a moment."  
  
"Your father," Will said resignedly. "Shall I accompany you in order to ensure your safety?"  
  
"It will be a pleasure as always," Elizabeth murmured back, letting him take her arm as he escorted her across the dance floor to her father and the Commodore, whose expression was his best civic-duty mask.   
  
Father was definitely up to something, and it had something to do with Commodore Norrington. The suspicion became a conviction within moments, as the Governor, with the smoothness of ingrained social graces, detached Will from her and drew him into a conversation of his own, leaving Elizabeth standing face-to-face in the middle of a clear expanse of floor, with her regal and unbending former fiancé.  
  
It was chastening - not to mention horrifying - to discover that her father could be every bit as much of an arch-manipulator as the infamous Captain Jack Sparrow.  
  
* * *  
  
James watched the Governor retreat with an edge of something close to panic, schooling his face hurriedly to the appropriate social facade.   
  
Why? Why of all the things that Governor Swann could have done, did he have to chose this one? Eliz - Miss Swann - was looking mortified and altogether lost for words, and he himself was hardly much better, and - surely - people would start to notice if one or other of them did not manage to say something soon.  
  
"Lovely weather, is it not, for the time of year?" The sharp gaity of her tone sounded like an accusation.  
  
"Yes - yes, indeed it is. Very - clement." It seemed it was only in conversation with Miss Swann that his grasp of English failed him so abysmally  
  
"You wanted to speak to me?"   
  
Elizabeth, I had nothing to do with whatever Governor Swann is up to, on my honour as a gentleman.   
  
One could not in polite society say, 'no, I did not', to such a question. He contemplated sarcasm, evasion and untruth, before settling reluctantly on honesty.  
  
"I fear on this occasion your father must have been mistaken. That is to say - not that I am not delighted by your company-" James broke off awkwardly, angered by his lack of composure. He could not quite bring himself to say the words. "I'll - leave you, then, and let you continue your duties as hostess."  
  
She stared at him, her face pale, perfect and so beautiful it was almost painful to look at. Her eyes were almost surprised, and just a little nervous.  
  
"No," she said hesitantly, and paused, her lips slightly parted. She made as if to speak something else and then ran her tongue nervously over dry lips, moistening them.   
  
Her tongue was moist and very pink, and left a sheen of dampness where it passed. James felt himself, in a single moment, freeze and burn in an incomprehensible whirl of fire and ice.  
  
* * *  
  
She realised her mistake the moment she had made it, the moment she saw the Commodore's sea-green gaze sharpen and burn like a predator's, making him suddenly bright and fey and terrible, his eyes fixed on her lips like a cat on its prey, closing the distance between them as his hand seized her wrist. His breath hitched harshly as he pulled her close, half-sob, half-snarl.  
  
She looked up into his eyes. This was not -  
  
She could feel his breath against her face, and found she could not look away. He was hardly recognisable, and far too close, and the hand on her wrist had gone from cool and dry to burning hot.  
  
A moment and-  
  
He gave a gasp and backed away from her, releasing gaze and hand. "Forgive me, Miss Turner," he said too carefully. She caught a glance at his face, and found it as wide-open and as vulnerable as a child's, and so stricken that she looked away quickly. "I do not appear to be quite myself."  
  
He turned before she could answer and strode away, his steps not quite steady.  
  
* * *  
  
He was still reeling.  
  
It took all his concentration to stay on his feet as he passed through the socialising groups, his face downturned so that those he passed could not detect his utter inability to regain even the appearance of composure. They looked round as he passed, he was sure of it, but he didn't attempt to meet their eyes.  
  
He could not blame her. She had not been aware, he was sure of it - she was still a child in some ways, and how could she have known? It would hardly be the act of a gentleman to blame a lady for his own want of self-control.   
  
But then no gentleman would ever react in such a scandalising fashion. He strode faster.  
  
He found Groves standing on the balcony with Lieutenant Crabtree, who had formerly been Junior Lieutenant of the Interceptor.  
  
"Lieutenant Groves," he said in a low voice that had Groves facing him in an instant, and Crabtree remaining resolutely on the balcony attempting to appear deaf-mute.   
  
"Sir?"  
  
"I need to leave *now*, Groves. I do not care how you do it. Just find me a pretext - within the next five minutes. Something, preferably, that won't be disproved by morning."  
  
Groves was careful not too look too closely at him. "Aye aye, Sir," he said briskly. "At once." He strode across the room easily, looking not at all like anything was amiss whatsoever.  
  
* * *  
  
"Are you all right, Elizabeth? I never thought-"   
  
Will was beside her again, his eyes enquiring on her face.  
  
"Nor did I." She gave a half-laugh. "I don't suppose he did either." And then she gave another half-laugh at Will's dubious look.  
  
The Commodore was a man of masks - she had come to half-know it before, but now it was inescapable. He had asked her where her heart lay, and the masks had shifted and she had seen for a moment glimmers of a pain he would never have acknowledged, but this - this was more than that. She had just seen all those masks shredded and torn away, and for a moment, a glimpse of what truly lay behind it.  
  
Elizabeth licked her lips again, and Will put a hand on her shoulder as she turned to smile up at her. Dear Will - her Will now - tender and loving, the soul of gentleness and sweetness. She couldn't ask for more.  
  
But just for a moment she couldn't help herself wondering what it would take to wake such predatory, desperate longing on Will's handsome, kindly face.  
  
END 


End file.
